Let's just make one thing clear: Americans on holiday abroad are enthusiastic and excitable creatures. A point I often forget after four years of living here, until, that is, I travel with a fellow countryman. So, when an old university mate, Crystal, decided to come over for a week, we agreed with the usual mixture of American chutzpah and boundless enthusiasm, to "do" the Scottish Highlands. In five days. And without a car.

We got off to a good start, boarding the 21.05 sleeper train from Euston and, within the hour, were drinking bourbon (not on to the proper whisky yet) and chatting with all the poor souls who were cabinless. For two 20-something Yanks from Georgia - that's America's deep south - train travel is a novel idea. It's exciting enough just taking a train, but sleeping on one is a major-league event. So, by the time we had boarded and found our cabin, we were squealing like two 10-year-olds at a Westlife concert.

It was tiny - only enough room for bunk beds and a sink - but that didn't stop us exploring every inch of it. And, when we were done, we decided a celebratory drink was in order. In the bar, bourbon flowed and conversation ensued until all the other passengers started nodding off. A word of caution about sleeper trains: make sure you remember which cabin is yours. Due to my extreme, ahem, fatigue, I managed to barge into not one, but two cabins before finding the right one.

The next morning, we trundled into Inverness and made our way to the youth hostel where we dumped our bags before setting out to have a look at the city. It didn't take long. Despite being the largest city in the Highlands, there isn't really much to see aside from a few historical buildings, including the Town House, where an emergency parliamentary meeting was held in 1921 to discuss the Irish crisis. To be honest, we were there for just one thing: Nessie. It was time to set our kitsch detectors to full blast and make our way to Loch Ness.

Without a car, there's really only one way to see Loch Ness: a tour. So we handed over our £12.50 and hopped on board Kenny's Loch Ness tour, confusingly led by Peter Forbes, a small, wiry man with a white beard and an accent guaranteed to please anyone who's itching to hear what a real Scotsman sounds like.

To tantalise us, we weren't taken to see Nessie straight away. It was a bit round the houses, with a city tour and a stop at the James Pringle weavers mill (where they are still weaving tartan) before finally reaching the loch. Loch Ness itself is beautiful. Long and narrow, surrounded by hills, it was nothing like I had envisaged. Part of the tour included a boat ride, and Crystal and I spent most of the time snapping through rolls of film.

One thing worried me, though. Where was the kitsch? Thankfully, we later stopped at the village of Drumnadrochit - and there it was. The Braveheart Centre, the floating Nessie in a pond. The tacky gift shops full of such fantastic gifts as Nessie snow-globes and spoons, and stuffed monsters bearing hearts saying "Together-Ness". Yes! And, as we left, a bagpipe player named Murdo blew a few tunes on the edge of the loch. Magical.

The next day, we had no plan, just a guidebook and lots of brochures, so we took the two-and-a-half hour train ride from Inverness to Kyle of Lochalsh. The train snaked through valleys, with tall hills staring down at us through wisps of mist. From the Kyle of Lochalsh we took a bus over the controversial Skye bridge and, after an hour-long coach ride, we arrived in Portree.

The fishing town of Portree is, as we Americans would say, "quaint". No, really. It has a colourful port, a small square, a few shops and there are hills all around. We had a look around the town, and decided to spend the first day out in the country, so we headed out for a hike. The views were amazing; the only blots on the landscape the small fisheries dotted along the coast.

That evening we resumed our duties as Scottish pub anthropologists. We made our way to the Royal Hotel (recommended for its traditional live music), where a drunken local proceeded to chat to us. We couldn't understand a word he was saying but he bought us drinks until closing time anyway.

Then came the evening's highlight. Maybe it was the whisky, maybe it was just being an outgoing and keen American, but Crystal managed to convince a young man in full Scottish regalia (there had been a small pipe and drum parade through the town square earlier in the evening) to show her what was under his kilt. And she even got photographic evidence.

Laughing victoriously, we stumbled back to the tent we had pitched earlier and sat out under a sky dripping with stars.

The next day, a little worse for wear, we decided to split off and do our own thing. I wanted to revisit some of the more beautiful vistas we had seen the day before. Crystal was feeling more adventurous and went on a MacBackpackers tour of the north of the island, a day-long tour around the Trotternish peninsula, which included climbing the Old Man of Storr, a often-photographed towering pinnacle of rock.

The next day - our last full day in Scotland - we headed back to Inverness. Despite the cold, rainy weather, we were not deterred and got on a hop-on, hop-off a bus out to Culloden battlefield where the last battle on British soil was held in April 1746. Someone (not me) decided that it would be a good idea to walk nearly two miles in the rain to go to Clava Cairns. Ok, so they are prehistoric burial chambers, which date back to 2000BC, but it was rainy and cold. However, my protests were shouted down, and as it turned out, they were worth the walk.

We made it back to London, grubby, exhausted, but what a trip it had been - beautiful views, great people and good booze. Even for Americans, we had had every reason to be enthusiastic.

Way to go

For more information about the sleeper train, and train travel within Scotland see www.scotrail.co.ukor call the national rail inquiry line on 08457 48 49 50.

Citylink runs a coach service from Inverness to the Isle of Skye. For more information, see www.citylink.co.uk or call 08705 50 50 50

About this article

Highland fling

This article was published on
the Guardian website
at 13.32 EDT on Tuesday 18 September 2001.
It was last modified at 13.32 EDT on Monday 2 October 2006.
It was first published at 19.00 EST on Tuesday 21 November 2006.